Gold and Carbon
by guineapiggie
Summary: "Dad, where are we going?" Timothy was almost running to keep up with his father. "And why do we have to run like that?" "We're going to the jeweller's, and I'm running because I'm nervous." [Missing scene from 2x08]


**Gold and Carbon**

 **DISCLAIMER:** I do not own a thing, everything is with their rightful owners. No money is made from this.

* * *

He couldn't believe how a decision that had come so easily, so naturally he hardly felt it had been a decision at all, could entail something so unbelievably distressing. Worse of all, _he'd been through this before._ How could this be so hard now?

He ran his hands through his hair for what was probably the millionth time, starting to wonder if there was any point in combing it at all these days.

Taking a deep breath, he decided he wasn't capable of handling this on his own, took up his coat and hurried to his car, oblivious to the rain.

.

"Timothy?" he called over the noise of the front door falling shut. "Tim, where are you?"

"I'm here, and only last week you made me clean all your supplies because I slammed the door like that," his son said, glaring up at him from the kitchen table where he sat bent over his homework.

"What?" Patrick frowned at his son in utter confusion, his troubled mind entirely unable to catch up.

"It's unfair that you punish me for things that you do yourself, Dad," Tim scolded and returned his attention to his exercise book.

Patrick noticed his hand had once more wandered to his hair without his permission. "Right. Timothy, please, you have to help me."

His son paused for a moment, then looked up and asked slowly: "Can I get another spitfire?"

He blinked a few times and tried to process Timothy's words. "Are you blackmailing me, son?"

His stern voice really wasn't up to scratch this morning, and he figured he ought to be a lot more shocked about his son's insolence.

Timothy shrugged. "I'll never get one elsewise, and you can't play at battle with a single plane, Dad," he added precociously.

Usually, he'd make a remark along the lines of _why do you need to play at war, can't you be glad we have peace_ – but today, he had no mind for that, either.

"Thank you for reassuring me," he muttered, shaking his head. "You _need_ a mother figure."

"Will you get me one if I help you?"

Patrick shook his head at his son, shoved his hands down his coat pockets and sighed deeply. "We'll see about the plane, Timothy, now could you please put on your shoes and come with me?"

"Where?" he asked cautiously, but put down his pencil and got to his feet, visibly more curious than he wanted to let on.

"Just come on," Patrick muttered and left the room, running into the battered chest of drawers in the hallway as he did. A curse slipped from his lips and caused his son to throw him a surprised glance.

"Dad!" he said, grinning. "What's wrong with you today?"

He ran both hands through his hair, feeling oddly light-headed. "You tie those shoes, hurry up. I'll explain on the way."

.

"Dad, where are we going?" Timothy was almost running to keep up with his father. "And why do we have to run like that?"

Patrick was torn out of his own confused thoughts, which was probably for the better, and glanced down at his son, realising belatedly he hadn't _audibly_ told the boy where they were heading. "We're going to the jeweller's, and I'm running because I'm nervous."

His voice sounded odd to his own ears, a little husky and not in the right pitch, and he was speaking faster than usually. _Nervous_ was, in fact, a monstrous understatement.

The boy processed his words for a moment, then asked with a grin spreading on his lips: "The jeweller's? Does this mean you're going through with it?"

"There's no need to sound so surprised," he said darkly, "your veto was all that kept me from it. Well, that, and the possibility of suffering a heart attack."

He _would_ have one, he was certain, possibly right now – there were so many things to consider, so many things that could go wrong… was it a good moment? Or was it too early? Would she be glad he'd chosen not to wait, or would she find it insolent? Was he rushing her? Would he force her to make a decision she wasn't ready to make?

Would it stop the gossip?

Would she _like_ whatever he picked?

Was a ring from him enough to replace the golden band that had been on her finger all those years?

"What's a veto?" When no answer came, Timothy tugged at his coat. "Dad? What's a veto?"

"I'll explain later," he said faintly, nervously fumbling with a loose button on his coat as the jeweller's came into view.

"Why did I have to come with you to buy the ring?" Timothy asked, elbowing his father gently to regain his attention. "That's what we're doing, right? Buying the ring?"

"I don't know what would be good for her," he said faintly. "I needed someone to help me chose."

"But I don't know a thing about jewellery, Dad!" Tim protested, looking rather insulted at the idea his father might think him an expert on such unmanly things. "How am I supposed to know what sort of rings women like?"

"I'm not much more use, I'm afraid. I was rather hoping we'd somehow manage between the two of us," he said, still in not quite in his usual voice, and threw his son a shaky smile.

"Right," Tim said, sounding a little sceptical, then added softly: "Maybe you could… straighten your hair or something? You look a bit of a mess."

"I feel a mess, too," he muttered and tried to flatten his unruly mop of hair, checking his reflection in the reflection of a shop window. He wasn't in the least satisfied with the result, but tried to console himself with the thought that most men coming into this shop had to be in a similar state.

"Better?"

Timothy gave a non-committal shrug. "Let's go."

.

"Dr Turner, what can I do for you?" David Rosen asked cheerfully, politely overlooking the state his GP was in. "A nice watch for young Timothy, perhaps? Or a new wristband for yours?" he added, throwing the battered watch on Patrick's wrist a pitiful glance.

"He'd only break it," Patrick muttered, the same moment as his son said:

"He'd only lose it."

The old jeweller smiled at the two of them fondly. "Then how may I help?"

"Dad needs a ring," Timothy explained impatiently and Patrick felt his face flush. His son was a model of subtlety, really.

"A little more specifically," he said tensely before his son could say any more, "I need you to tell absolutely no one. And I'd like to buy an engagement ring."

"Of course, Doctor," Rosen said, bending down to unlock a drawer. "Who's the lucky lady?"

Patrick grimaced. "No need to pretend, Mr Rosen, I'm afraid all of Poplar knows. Some of them seemed to have known well before I did."

"Why yes, according to my neighbour, you are the talk of town, and it might well be so since she's quite fond of gossip herself," the jeweller answered with a carefree little laugh and placed three black velvet cases set with a worrying amount and variety of rings on the table top. Patrick felt even more lost than before.

The old man seemed to sense his distress and said gently: "Maybe I could assist you a little?"

"Yes. Please."

"Well, I'd say we're not looking for something too extravagant in your case."

"No," he said, relieved he could give a sensible answer for once. "I need something simple… as down to earth as possible."

"Then we can rule out all these." The jeweller shoved aside one of the cases. "A clear stone? Or perhaps a certain colour?"

Patrick caught himself just before he could blurt out an _engagement rings come in bloody_ colours _?_ and cast his son a helpless glance. Timothy looked about as overwhelmed as he was feeling, but turned to Mr Rosen and said in an admirably resolute tone: "White's good with us."

Patrick fleetingly wondered what his year-long patient had to think of him, entrusting his eleven year-old son with such a pivotal and intimate decision. But in a way, he felt that Timothy should have a part in all this – and besides, he would certainly not manage without him.

"Excellent. Then you'll want to look at these," Mr Rosen indicated the lower third of one of the cases, "and don't worry about the size just now, we'll see about that once you've decided on a model."

For a moment, both Patrick and Tim stood staring pensively at the assembled jewellery, then Patrick tentatively pointed towards a very simple one in the lowest row.

"How's that one?"

The boy tilted his head, contemplated the ring for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't know. It's so small."

"Well, I want something small."

"Dr Turner," the vendor said gently, "I think your son might be right. I do see your point, but as you said earlier… you might want that ring to be seen, you know, to… disperse some of the gossip. We're not talking much bigger, perhaps a size or two." He smiled apologetically. "Forgive an old man for being old-fashioned, but I rather feel that these tiny stones just don't make the proper shape, they don't look like an engagement ring to me."

"I just don't want it to be… to be too much," he said with a helpless shrug.

"What about this one?" Timothy interrupted, indicating a modest ring with a round stone that caught the light. "It looks nicer, and I think it'll look small enough on her hand."

"The stone's a fine cut," Mr Rosen agreed, throwing Tim a smile. "I'd second your choice, young man."

Tim didn't look too happy with this comment – it made Patrick grin a little, how anxious his son was someone might think he had an eye for jewellery.

"You're right, it's pretty," he conceded, patting his son's shoulder absent-mindedly.

Who was he to tell what she might like? For some reason, he thought that after years of not being allowed to wear any jewellery at all, she wouldn't want anything flashy. But it might just as well be the other way around.

Besides, at the end of the day, he didn't suppose the bloody _shape_ was of any importance. What mattered, and what made him feel like everything he bought would be too much, was this ring's meaning – an entire future, comprised into a tiny bit of gold and carbon.

Scary, really.

"What d'you say then, shall we have that one?"

Timothy grinned up at him. "As long as you don't expect me to chip in-"

"Oi, less of that cheek, young man," he muttered, shaking his head, but couldn't help returning Mr Rosen's wide smile.

.

The tiny box felt very heavy in his coat pocket as they left the shop.

"Right," he sighed, more to himself than Tim, "that's that bit dealt with. And now I'll just have to ask." His voice sounded pained to his ears, but this son didn't seem to notice.

"That should be easy," Timothy said cheerily, making his father cringe.

" _Easy?_ I'll repeat that to you once you get round to putting yourself through this."

Tim frowned up at him. "It's a simple enough question, isn't it?"

"It's not the _words_ I'm struggling with, Tim," he explained feebly, "it's just that… the answer to this might change the rest of my life, and the rest of hers, and the rest of _yours._ That's a lot of future depending on my ability to utter a couple of words. Do you understand that?"

Timothy bit his lip. "But you _want_ all that, don't you?"

"Yes."

He frowned. "Then I don't understand it."

Patrick chuckled. "Suppose one day you will."

"Huh."

They walked in silence for a while, then Tim's face lit up. "Dad… if I came up with something so you wouldn't have to actually _ask…_ d'you think we could see about that plane then?"

He raised a brow at his son and wondered if maybe the boy had spent too much time around Fred.

"Well, I think we might if I like your idea."

Tim grinned. "You'll _love_ it."

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